Date: November 2, 542, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The firz village greeted Datuk with silence.
He walked down the main street, his boots clattering on the stone slabs, the only sound in that silent settlement. The inhabitants emerged from their houses and froze, staring at him. Their eyes — on their palms — were wide open, and in those black, shining pupils reflected fear. And surprise. And something else Datuk could not name.
He was covered in blood. His own and others'. His clothes were rags, and through the tears showed fresh scars — crimson, just beginning to heal. His left arm, still in its makeshift splint, hung limply at his side. He carried his axe on his shoulder, its notched blade glinting dully in the light.
"It's him," someone in the crowd whispered. "He came back."
"Impossible," answered another voice. "No one comes back."
Datuk paid them no attention. He walked toward the elder's house — the only place he knew in this village. But before he had taken ten steps, she ran out of the crowd.
Namida.
She was pale — paler than usual — and her blind eye sockets seemed deeper. Her hands, with eyes on their palms, were stretched out before her, and she walked straight toward him without stopping.
"You…" she began, then fell silent.
She stopped two paces away, her palms with their open eyes frozen in the air. She looked at him. And she saw.
The scars. The blood. The exhaustion. And the strange, almost frightening calm in his eyes.
"You came back," she said. It was not a question.
"Were you doubting?" Datuk smirked, but his smirk lacked its usual bravado. Only weariness.
Namida stepped forward and touched his shoulder. Her fingers, thin and warm, found the edge of a wound. She flinched.
"You are the first to make it out," she said quietly. "Our best warriors… they jumped into the Crater. Many years. Many times. No one returned."
"So I'm better than your best warriors," Datuk shrugged. "Or just luckier."
Namida shook her head.
"No," she said. "You are different. You have something they lacked."
"What's that?"
"I don't know," Namida answered and smiled. "Maybe mad, stupid stubbornness."
Datuk wanted to be offended, but thought better of it. She was right.
---
News of the dwarf's return spread through the village instantly. By evening, the elder announced a feast in honor of the hero who had survived the Dead Crater.
"A feast?" Datuk asked when Namida relayed the message. "Do you even have drink here?"
"We do," she nodded. "Weak, but we do. The firz are not used to strong liquor."
"Weak is not a problem," Datuk grinned. "As long as there's plenty."
The feast began at sunset. The firz brought out tables into the main square, loaded them with everything they had. Simple food — bread, cheese, vegetables, porridge. But it smelled good, and Datuk, who had not eaten properly for days, fell upon the food with such eagerness that Namida laughed.
"Slow down, hero," she said. "The food isn't going anywhere."
"Neither am I," Datuk mumbled with his mouth full. "But hunger is no joke."
The firz rolled out barrels of drink. It was murky, yellowish, smelled of herbs and something sweet. Datuk took a gulp — and grimaced.
"Weak," he said. "Like water."
He drained the cup in one go and took another. Then another. And another. The firz watched him in amazement — they sipped the drink slowly, savoring the taste, while the dwarf simply poured it into himself like a bottomless barrel.
"Don't you feel the alcohol at all?" Namida asked.
"I feel it," Datuk replied, pausing at his third cup. "But I need to relax. And this is the best way."
He was not lying. After days spent in darkness, in blood and filth, this sweet, tangy drink tasted like nectar. Even if it was weaker than Krag‑Mhor water.
Firz came up to him. Some with respect, some with apprehension. Children, emboldened, climbed onto his lap and touched his axe, his scars, his beard. Datuk did not shoo them away.
"Were there really giant rats down there?" asked a boy of about ten.
"Really," Datuk nodded. "As tall as you. And teeth like this."
He spread his arms wide. The children gasped.
"And you killed them?"
"All of them," Datuk said and winked. "The Queen and the King. Even their young — none left."
The children looked at him with admiration. The adults listened, exchanging glances, and in their eyes — on their palms — something like reverence could be read.
The evening turned into night. Someone brought pipes, someone drums. The firz began to dance — clumsy but cheerful. Datuk sat on a log, drank, and watched them. For the first time in a long while, he felt at peace.
"Are you going to tell about your home?" Namida asked, sitting down beside him. "About your friends?"
"If you'll listen," he answered.
"With pleasure," she smiled.
Datuk was silent for a moment, then began to talk. About Krag‑Mhor, about his mother who scolded him when he came home late, about his father who nodded silently, looking at him with his dark eyes. About Sobra, who does not speak but understands everything. About Ulvia, who lost an arm but grew a new one from a vine. About Rosh, cold and aloof, yet loyal.
"They are my family," he said. "A wild, noisy family."
Namida listened without interrupting. Her blind eye sockets gazed somewhere into the distance, but he felt — she saw. She saw what he was saying.
By midnight, Datuk realized he was drunk. Not badly — the sweet drink had finally taken effect — but enough that his tongue began to slur and his thoughts to tangle.
"You have a good festival here," he said, setting aside yet another empty cup. "I haven't seen one like this in a long time."
"Do you celebrate often?" Namida asked.
"No," Datuk answered. "There's no time for festivals in the Tree."
---
The celebration continued. The firz sang songs in their own language, their voices soft and sad, blending with the rustle of the wind. Datuk listened, and his heart felt warm.
"More," he said, holding out his cup.
Namida sighed, but poured.
The feast was only beginning.